


The Burdens of a Champion

by FactoryKat



Series: The Mages' Champion and the Healer's Hope - The Wyatt Hawke Collection [13]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Custom Male Hawke (Dragon Age), Dragon Age II - Act 2, Dragon Age II Quest - Demands of the Qun, Healer Anders (Dragon Age), M/M, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 08:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19848961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FactoryKat/pseuds/FactoryKat
Summary: “You have granted this man basalit-an, by this admission he has the right to challenge you.” Of course. Of course, he did.Hawke struggles with his hero complex and nearly pays for it.





	The Burdens of a Champion

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for blood and violence, in case the tags weren't enough.

_“Arishokos! Qun-anaam ebra-toh. You have granted this man basalit-an, by this admission he has the right to challenge you.”_

_Of course. Of course, he did. Fenris wasn’t to blame, the elf was perhaps his only saving grace, the best mediator and leverage for this rock and a hard place. He felt no resentment towards the absent pirate either, only a bitter void that settled in his gut where her vanishing act hit him. He might have understood her circumstances had she been more forthright-_

_“What? No!”_

_Within that void stirred the welcome flames of determination. “Anders, it’s okay.” He gathered his resolve and steeled himself for what was to come. Had to - for him to do otherwise would be to disappoint everyone in this room._

_“Hawke, love, please-”_

_“I accept these terms, Arishok.” His voice came out steady as he straightened his back. “Will you do_ me _the same honor then?”_

\---

His companions were helpless but to simply watch as he narrowly avoided the kiss of death with each swing of the Arishok’s sword. Mage versus Qunari leader, it was a battle of paradox, the unstoppable force against the immovable object. Wyatt Hawke considered himself to be fierce on the field of battle, commanding a formidable control over his magic but lead still formed in his gut as steel scraped against stone, making the crowd jump. As the Arishok’s mighty weapon missed by only a fraction of a hair this time, his stomach dropped. 

Another near miss, too close.

This went on for a torturous hour more until first blood had been taken. Nothing significant, not yet, but it was enough for the crowd to erupt into angry jeers and hollering. No one _truly_ wanted the Qunari leader to win, but it was the thrill of fierce competition that drove them into a frenzy.

Worse yet was when even more brilliant red lifeforce painted the floor of the viscount’s hall.

The smell of blood was distinctly cloying, palpable and almost tactile. It was a dizzying and acrid sweetness cut sharply by the taste of metal on the tongue. To smell it was to suffocate the senses but to see it was to invite fear and panic, a sense of _wrongness_ whatever the circumstance that lead to it. 

There had been two other prominent points in Wyatt’s lifetime, vivid moments when the pungent scent had been so overwhelming. 

_Bethany lay frighteningly still, cradled in desperate arms against the haunting siren of mournful wailing. Blood that once flowed thick and scarlet through her veins clung to trembling, calloused hands. It coated the dirt in nonsensical patterns, stained flesh both her own and her mother’s, it intermingled with the sweat and mud already caked in dark hair. One drop - two - more. He fixated on each rivulet, stunned into silence._

Any pain he could have felt was barely a dull buzzing, registered only vaguely in the recesses of his mind. It was dulled by a weighted fog or was it the ocean - a murky tide pulling him under and filling his lungs with water while haze gathered at the corners of his eyes and obscured his vision.

_It was his turn to feel the scathing sting of loss - to hold someone close as they slipped from his hands, to wrongly curse the Maker for playing twisted games. Milky eyes turned his stomach but his arm would not move under his own command to close them, to hide them. Instead, they stared blankly through him, judging silently while he choked down the anger. He just held her limp and patchwork body to his chest, drinking in the nauseating stench of gore._

Agony ripped through his chest and pulled a scream from his throat as he clawed at the shadows creeping in, pushing through all of his physical sufferings. The creak of leather and the metallic clink of steel rung too loudly in his ears as his hands - slick with sweat and blood - found purchase on the weapon suddenly lodged firmly in his chest. Pinned in place, he was at the bronze giant’s mercy. At that moment, when reality made sense again hoarse, wet laughter wracked his aching chest in bitter satisfaction over the sickening squelch and crunch that followed and echoed when he drove the bladed end of his staff through the Qunari’s throat.

He barely avoided collapsing on himself but held it together long enough to end the battle with a wild flourish, drawing on the fade and the last ounce of mana he could spare to pull forth a frozen burst from one hand and an arc of wild flame in the other. 

Over. 

It was over and he was still standing - 

for all of a minute until he wrenched the gargantuan blade free from his torso, releasing him from the wall. A scream strangled by the taste of bile and copper in the back of this throat sputtered out in gasps. Strength fleeing him, senses dulling, the world spun aimlessly and a quiver in his knees pulled him down. 

_“-h - Maker - Hawke!”_

It was nothing short of a miracle that Wyatt could hear _anything_ between his racing pulse and blood pumping in his ears seemingly in rhythm with the cheering crowd, but the anguished cry had a way of piercing the nauseating haze that he found himself drifting in and out of.

 _“Blondie - better - there!”_ More muffled shouting registered in his mind, if only on some vague level. 

Touch. Yes. Hands were on him, strong, shaking and hesitant. Complaints about being pawed at and awkwardly dragged to his feet didn’t make it beyond initial thought. “Tha - that’s a _lot_ \- blood,” he muttered feebly, eyes struggling to focus on the slick trail he left behind. Finally the adrenaline high of battle tapered out and indomitable will was no longer enough to sustain him and keep him upright. Mana starved, his lungs ached and yearned as if they had been deprived of air, smothering his inner fire. He sunk against - whoever.

A murmur rolled through the spectators as they started to rally around their new champion. Aveline quickly surrendered the responsibility of holding them at bay. She lodged no complaints as the Knight-Commander seamlessly inserted herself as the authority de facto and began to corral the crowd. With the chaos erupting in the keep it wouldn’t be wise to dally long. 

“- get him - clinic - bandages - !” 

Fractions of sentences, the odd word here or there, drifted along with the tide of misery that had pulled him under and somehow reached him. Not that it mattered.

\---

_“You realize -- your fault? Because -- selfishness-”_

_"--? He’s -- fight, not me. -- besides I already-”_

_“-- could have been killed -- ! Do you ever think of anyone --”_

_"Fine -- if I care -- worth, I'm sorry--"_

_…_

Fire consumed his ailing form in a way it never had before. It wasn't the familiar warmth that always kindled within him, it was searing sparks every time he so much as twitched. Even a shallow inhale was to invite a new wave of sharp pinpricks underneath his skin- but were they duller? Still there but - somehow subdued? The voices had stopped and the room was silent, that he could easily distinguish now as consciousness greeted him like an old friend. A crackle, a distinct pop of a lit hearth and the rustle of soft fabric as he moved were the next things his now-active mind latched on to. He could feel the way his brows furrowed even before he dare pry his eyes open, one and then the other, slowly at first until fully adjusted to the warm light and his surroundings. His whereabouts only just dawned on him as he took in the rich maroons, strong earth tones and stark almost blazing red of the Amell crest staring back at him from up on the wall. Clutching soft sheets in his hands, Wyatt gathered what minuscule strength he had to lift himself up to a sitting position, hissing through his teeth the whole while.

“ _Hawke_?” The door to his bedroom swung open and through squinting eyes, he caught a flash of blonde hair and the tall, slender figure that emerged. “Oh thank The Maker,” Anders crossed the room and was at his bedside with a brisk stride giving him a full view of the creases at the corner of honey-gold eyes rimmed with red and the ever-present dark shadows of sleep deprivation. 

A frown tugged at his lips as he reached for a flushed cheek, “Anders-”

Long fingers closed around his hand and squeezed tightly. “You really should lie back down, love. My healing only goes so far if you don't give your body a chance to recover.” His eyes drooped as Anders brushed hair away from his sweat-dampened forehead and caressed his cheek. Wyatt nuzzled against the open palm before his eyes opened again, wider and with a question on his lips now.

“Was someone just here? I thought I heard Isabela-”

“She left.”

He couldn’t help the groan that escaped as he tried to sit up again, straining against the burning ache that bloomed across his torso. “What do you mean left? Why were you arguing? And don’t try to tell me you weren’t. I heard, well, I heard enough.”

Sandy brows were pulled low over amber eyes as they darkened. “You didn’t have to defend her you know. It was because of her actions you almost -” he swallowed the rest of the sentence and tried again, “that you were so seriously wounded.”

“Anders, she’s my friend. Of course I was going to defend her. What did you want me to do? Hand her over to the Qunari?”

“No! I just -” Anders let his hand drop and formed fists at his sides, fists that shuddered with the rest of him. 

Hackles raised, his voice increased in volume as he countered his lover’s excuse, or the attempt at one, anyway. “Just what? You thought it would solve all our problems? Or that they would suddenly apologize and be on their way? You know as well as I that there was no way things were going to end without someone getting hurt and if that meant me, so I could spare someone or _everyone_ else from a bloody fate-”

“That! That right there is the problem!” Anders spat back with a deepening frown. “I just wish you would stop trying to be the bloody hero all the time because one of these days you’re going to get yourself killed and neither I _nor_ Justice can fix that!”

The words sliced at him, pinched him, they squeezed his heart as the man turned his back to leave the room. Wyatt scrambled to reach for him, to climb out from beneath the sheets and stop him - “Anders, wait-” his vision swam and colorful spots clung to his vision as pain lanced through his chest and snaking down along his arm. Though he could feel the dampness already, he still pressed a hand to his wound instinctively.

“Andraste’s sword, Wyatt. I told you to be careful - did you reopen your wound? Let me see-” Anders’ hands were both firm and a comfort as expected of a healer dealing with a stubborn patient. His voice settled, coming down in pitch. Soothing, he found the tone soothing even in his chiding. “Well, it could have been worse but it’s not that bad,” he muttered as an ethereal blue glow came to life beneath the palm he laid against the seeping injury. 

The ebb and flow of magic was a familiar one, welcoming as it washed over him. Anders had healed him numerous times and the sensation was always calming, warm, setting him at ease and chasing the tension from his shoulders. It washed away the sting of their disagreement. 

Wyatt grabbed his lover’s hand, halting him and making eye contact, “Come here.”

“Hawke,” Anders’ nose scrunched and pulled his arm back, “don’t be stubborn. You need to let me-”

“No, I mean I want you here. With me. Please?” He pleaded, brushing his lips against fingers stained red with life. He searched his beloved’s face for a response and saw him process the request, saw him ponder upon it before understanding settled on his face and he began shedding the heavy coat and pauldrons. The boots followed as did the oversized tunic until he was down to trousers. 

It was difficult for Wyatt, to resist turning over to climb on top and declare conquest, but he laid back against his partner's surprisingly solid chest and nestled his body comfortably in Anders' lap who cradled him carefully and laid hands wreathed in the same halo of magic on his chest once more. As the healing energies poured into him, working to knit him back together, Wyatt mumbled an apology.  
“Sorry.”

“I know, love. Just rest.”

“No, I - I scared you. You’re right, it was reckless. I promise I won’t do anything like that again.” He stole one hand from its duty to kiss the bare palm and felt a subtle shiver beneath him. 

A sigh escaped Anders’ lips but he didn’t pull away. “Yes, you will.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because that’s just who you are, love. Much as I wish it wasn’t. I can’t stop you, I can only be there to stitch you back together and pray to the Maker that it is enough to keep you alive this time.”

Stifling silence fell into place between them and hung awkwardly in the air for far too long. In that span of time, they let the crackling hearth say everything they should have. Hawke sunk deeper into the comfort of his partner’s care until he was too tired to keep his eyes open any longer.


End file.
